


Crève-Coeur

by TheRottenOne



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, May add tags as I go...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRottenOne/pseuds/TheRottenOne
Summary: "The Hamlet gathered the desperate, the humble and the devoted. Colonies of Lepers seeking refuge, disowned Crusaders and Sisters of Saint Martha, following the shadows like a flight of crows to seek the light in this hopeless place. Wanderers from all sides, carried by an ill wind, bringing bad news, or a spark of faith.The indigent and the faithful came in numbers, banding together to brave the perils of the journey. The fools who tried to reach the Estate of Malemort on their own were never seen again. Until now, apparently."
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Pale Horse

« At my door, the Pale horse stands  
To carry me to unknown lands. »  
-John Hay

A wet fog was falling over the Hamlet, dulling the last dying lights of the day. Gesmas shivered at the chill bite of the evening’s air, burying himself further under the fur collar of his old coat. As far as he could remember, the Malemort estate always had seemed to him to be forever draped in that sleepy fog, tinted with faded gold and copper accent, like the weak light of a flame behind a blurry glass. He leant against the pedestal of the Ancestor memorial, decrepit but still standing proud at the very center of the small town. The stagecoach had returned empty to the Hamlet today, and he saw no unfamiliar face among the usual suspects strolling around. He could feel the statue’s disapproving eyes of stone on him, as he rolled a cigarette. As if the rasp kiss of the smoke would warm him up. He set tired and craving eyes on the tavern, as its faded clamors and laughers troubled the quiet of the dusk. He wouldn’t have refused a drink. The ale they were serving here was cheap and bitter, but the warmth of the alcohol was still more welcoming to him than a whore’s cold and loveless embrace. But his pockets were empty, and he still had some tobacco left.

The distinct sound of hooves stomping hastily on the muddy soil nearly startled him. It couldn’t be the Estate stagecoach, parked near the tavern… that crooked wagon was the only -almost- safe way to reach the Hamlet. Malemort gathered the desperate, the humble and the devoted. Colonies of Lepers seeking refuge, disowned Crusaders and Sisters of Saint Martha, following the shadows like a flight of crows to seek the light in this hopeless place. Wanderers from all sides, carried by an ill wind, bringing bad news, or a spark of faith.The indigent and the faithful came in numbers, banding together to brave the perils of the journey. The fools who tried to reach Malemort on their own were never seen again. Until now, apparently.  
Amidst the mist, appeared the haggard silhouette of a lone traveler, mounted on a pale dappled horse. The rider was hiding their face under a wide hat with a plume and a musket was hanging at the right side of the steed’s saddle.

The voyager’s mount was knocked up, panting, white foam drooling from his bit to its neck, glistening with sweat. The grey horse bit on its snaffle as a dry jolt of the reins steeply braked it. Its legs were damp with wet, dark mud and Gesmas could see a tray of blood, dripping from a nasty gash on its rump. Maybe a wolf or a gnasher… Or worse.

There were very good reasons nobody sane dared to wander unaccompanied on the torturous path to the Malemort Estate… Gesmas could still clearly remind himself of his own journey to the Hamlet. He remembered the bumpy rugged road and the creaky stagecoach with its shabby seats full of bugs and how dense was the fog surrounding the infamous equipage. He barely shared a word with his travel companion -a young arbalester, who died in the year- and when he heard, through the dimness of the night and from the depths of the forest distant plaints and bizarre noises, so odd that he couldn’t put a word on it, Gesmas would just pretend it was the wind. And still, before his very eyes, there was this rider who made it alone through the Old Road. The Highwayman couldn’t tell yet if it was a brave or a foolhardy soul, hiding under that wide feathered hat. 

The stranger dismounted, splattering their leather boots with mud as their feet touched the ground. The silhouette was gracile, feminine, Gesmas noticed, and he saw the blaze of long copper strand of hair falling down from under the hat, like embers glowing through the ash of the lifting fog. Her outfit looked worn out and her riding cloak was torn here and there. Her buck hide doublet was stained, and the deep blue silk of her sleeves had lost its luster. The rider probably noticed Gesmas’ stare as she turned her face to him. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes darker than the blackest and treacherous waters of the Cove. He saluted her, slightly tilting his ratty tricorne and she silently nodded back, the feathers of her hat lightly bouncing at her subtle gesture. She had something in her manners, by the way she was standing and how her gloved hand reached for a wild strand of red hair to tug it back behind her ear that made him think that she was -as Dismas, his fellow Highwayman would say- a ‘’Lady of quality’’. She had the unreachable grace and discreet elegance of those who know their worth and nonchalantly feign to not display it.

He knew only too well this kind of temperament from Boleyn, the local Grave-Robber. She was as criminal as he was… or even worse. For Gesmas, the dead should rest undisturbed… but this unspoken rule was the least of Boleyn’s problems and she had little scruple on the question. Yet her life hadn’t always been this miserable, filled with dirty deeds and desecration. She once was a noble lady, and he could still see it in her demeanor. Grief and bitterness had tarnished her beauty, but she kept the gestures, the stance and the elegant hypocrisy… However, every and each of her words was filled with poison and the most courteous smile on her thin lips could turn into the most unpleasant smirk, chilling Gesmas to the bones. But the stranger’s presence was more intimidating than unsettling. 

She unbuckled the musket from her horse's saddle, throwing its baldric around her shoulder and shoved the reins in the Caretaker’s hands. He welcomed her venue with exaggerated bowings and a crooked yellow smile as she handed him a letter. They exchanged a few words Gesmas couldn’t catch the meaning of, and she headed off to the direction the Caretaker pointed to her, her steps light and swift, heels clattering on the wet mud of the path. 

****

Days had passed since the stranger’s arrival in Malemort and rumors started to spread in the Hamlet like a disease. She arrived in the blind, mounted on a pale horse and nobody knew her name nor where she was coming from. She was secretive, wandering in the town, waiting for orders to keep her in motion. Sister Boissel and Sister Alma, the two Vestals of the Hamlet often saw her retiring in the Cathedral cloister. Sometimes she could be seen in the transept, lighting candles and counting the beads, beseeching the Lord and whispering his words.

Gesmas heard that she was a Musketeer. Inquisitive eyes had noted the faded crest embroidered on her cloak, igniting even more gossips and whispers about her. Musketeers were wellborn champions, the elite of some foreign royal court. They found their marks in the competition field and on the hunting-ground. They hit targets, graceful stags and stubborn boars with deadly precision, for the beauty of the gesture. A lavish life of challenges and refinement. They didn’t chase after nightmares, boots in the muck and fear in the enthrails… And thus the Highwayman caught himself wondering how she could have ended up in Malemort.

****

‘’… Maybe it’s just for the thrill of adventure? Who knows.’’ stated Gesmas nonchalantly tapping on the stained wooden table. He took a sip of ale, raising his eyes to his comparse Dismas, sitting in front of him. 

The air of the tavern was barely breathable and he had to raise his voice to be heard over the tumult of the inn. Tonight’s was the Inkeeper’s special treat to the Hamlet, and the ale was free for a night, gathering nearly all the villagers in the small establishment.

‘’Bet it!’’ blurted Dismas, violently putting back his own tankard on the old table, spilling liquor on it. ‘’Pretty sure she came here for the very same reason as you and I.’’

‘’You mean that she came to run away from problems is it?’’ inquired a distant and slightly mocking voice coming from under Reynauld’s helm. The Crusader took a seat at their table, candlelights flickering in the dull reflection of his visor. Dismas gave him an irritated look. 

‘’You’re a fine one to talk Reynauld, you are an arrant thief and maybe twice as criminal as I am…’’. He took a sip of ale, cloaking his annoyance behind the heavy tankard. ‘’At least they didn’t threaten to hang me for the same reasons as this guy.’’ He threw a look behind his shoulder to the Bounty Hunter sitting alone at a back table. ‘’You know… deviant tastes.’’ Dismas sneered and Gesmas couldn’t help but imagine Reynauld displaying a disapproving frown under his helm. He snorted in his scarf to conceal a smirk.

Dismas waved his hand as he picked up the conversation. ‘’So, back to that Musketeer… She must have got into deep troubles to end up in Malemort. Nothing good to get or to take from this godforsaken place. The ale here isn’t even close to good and you get more disease from a visit to the brothel than from a raid in the Warrens!’’

‘’When someone new arrive in the Hamlet, one shouldn’t ask any question.’’ Reynauld said. ‘’She probably have her own reason and nothing to left behind… Or no one.’’ His voice wavered a bit. ‘’ Does she even have a name?’’

Dismas shook his head. ‘’None that anybody has heard from her. She barely speak a word.’’ He sighed ‘’Anyway, enough headlocks for tonight,’’ he stretched his back before throwing a couple of bone dice onto the table. ‘’who will play dice with me?’’

Gesmas raised a polite hand to refuse ‘’Thanks but my mind isn’t at it…’’

‘’Mine isn't either,’’ added Reynauld ‘’don’t beg me for it..’’  
‘’No one ever play games with me!’’ groaned the Highwayman, with visible indignation.

‘’Maybe it’s because you cheat like… every time. You've had these dices for a while. Everybody in town know those are piped.’’  
‘‘Bullshit! Come and see Reynauld! I’ll show you if they’re piped or not!’’ Dismas champed at the bit. ‘’You never play games, never drink, you don’t even shag, for God’s sake! Why are you in a tavern at all!?’’

‘’Do not speak blasphemy!’’ the Crusader barked, thumping the table with his gauntlet.

Gesmas watched the two as they were arguing, snickering under his scarf. After a moment he took a long look at the bottom of his tankard, as if the bitter ale would provide him some answers. A week had passed, or maybe two and she wouldn’t give her name. Another strange folk to the Hamlet he told himself. 

He drank up his jug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever made it to the end... I hope that you liked the reading. English isn't my first language so my writing may be a bit clumsy.  
> I don't know where this story is going... I'll go with the flow. Let me know if you want to read more of it!


	2. Crève-Coeur

‘’Are my days not few? Withdraw from me, that I may have a little comfort,  
before I go, never to return, to a land of darkness and gloom,  
to a land of utter darkness, of deep shadow and disorder, where even the light is like darkness.’’  
-Job’s Plea to God

‘’Stop moving will you? I can’t work if you keep twitching!’’

Gesmas groaned as Peis sutured a deep cut on his upper arm, maintaining it firmly on the examination table with her free hand. The thin and agile fingers of the Plague Doctor handled the needle quickly and precisely, as if she was working on some fine embroidery work. She sighed under her mask. ‘’That Cultist Brawler didn’t miss you, that’s one tough wound… I didn’t went well did it?’’

The Highwayman couldn’t see her eyes under these mirrored lenses, but he could feel her concern.

‘’I got it from Dismas’’ she uttered ‘’Reynauld wouldn’t just tell a word about what happened in the Ruins and he had a hard time getting anything from him when he returned from your mission. You had that Musketeer with you, right?’’

Gesmas nodded. ‘’It was her first raid for the Hamlet. She got wounded in the last room and we still had to cross one last corridor to get out. She had a panic attack and Boissel couldn’t calm her down…’’ He clenched his teeth as Peis tightened her grip on his arm.

‘’You have been gone for three days, we were starting to worry… I though it was just a scouting mission.’’

‘’It was.’’ The Highwayman grimaced as the curved needle pierced through his flesh once more. ‘’It just didn’t go as expected.’’

‘’I can tell’’ she breathed behind her crow mask ‘’It could have gone worse. If you didn’t have that bandage to hand to staunch the blood flow...’’ She knotted the suture point and snipped the thread ends. ‘’All done.’’

She threw the tools dirty with blood and a stained chiffon on a metal plate before wrapping a clean bandage over the freshly sutured wound. The air was heavy and filled with the coarse scent of medicinal herbs and old parchments. The laboratory of the Athenaeum was still under construction when Peis and her fellow Plague Doctor and mentor Gaspar had set their office within its wall. They filled the empty shelves with their books and covered the naked walls with anatomical prints and sketches, messy scribbles and hasty notes. It eventually became, with time, a dispensary and Peis’ organized mess made the place more welcoming, among the sharp instruments, vats of formaldhyde and the bones and skulls, grinning at Gesmas from their dusty shelves. Amidst the odd capharnaum surrounding him, Gesmas gazed at Pes hypnotic gesture as she patched him up. She looked frail under her surgeon’s robe. He knew that she was sometimes losing appetite and sleep over her researches. Late at night, the lights of the laboratory were still lit. And still she was here, tending to his wound. As if she was reading in his mind, she inquired, serious yet slightly amused.

‘’We have a Sanitarium in Malemort and still, you keep coming here for me to patch you up.’’

‘’I don’t like the Sanitarium’’ groaned Dismas, rolling his shirt sleeve over his arm as Peis was done with him. ‘’They use leeches for everything there… Absolutely everything.’’

Peis laughed, a muffled grin from behind her mask as she got up to wash her hands. ‘’So do I… Leeches are the only supply we are sure to never run off in Malemort… A true Eden for researchers and scientist here.’’

‘’If only I could share you enthusiasm about this place Peis… about that, Gaspar isn’t here today?’’ Gesmas asked, looking over the Plague Doctor’s shoulder.

She sighed, wiping her wet hands on her apron. ‘’He is in the store room… He’s been trying to sober-up for two days now. Brothel was closed when you were away in the ruins. He had to find something better to do and he got himself carried away by the, er, rush of life.’’

A weak and raspy voice emerged from behind the curtain hiding the store-room. ‘’…. Urgh… What day…. What day is it….?’’ 

‘’See?’’ said Peis, visibly annoyed. ‘’Since you left I’ve done nothing but cleaning his vomit and putting him to sleep… He better rest here rather than exposing his disgrace to the Hamlet.’’ She, said, pretending that the whole town wasn’t already aware of Gaspar’s drinking habit. 

It was a shame, thought Gesmas, to see how down the life in Malemort had brought Gaspar Paracelsus. He was the first Plague Doctor to arrive in the Hamlet after the new Heir claimed their birthrights on the Estate. He was a learnt scholar, a medicine prodigy and was as talented as a surgeon as he was vicious as a fighter. Blessed with steady hands and a feather-like touch, he was able to stitch grievous injuries and set bones to mend with ease, and his morbid interest for poisons proved useful. Gaspar was pretty aware of his many talents and was taking pride displaying it with cockiness and a mocking gleam. Dismas had to keep Reynauld more than once from strangling the Plague Doctor after one of his speech about the power of science and knowledge over the darkness of ignorance and religion. Gaspar had little empathy for other people than himself, except maybe for Peis, that he mentored soon after her arrival in Malemort, before wine and debauchery took over him. Peis was still a young and inexperienced attendant. But her curiosity and passion for knowledge -that got her in troubles and traps quite often- made her progress fast and she proved herself more than once on the battlefield. Without having her mentor’s gifts and experience, she could worthily take over from him when he was too wasted to think straight and his hands too shaky to hold a scalpel. 

‘’You take good care of him.‘’ muttered Gesmas to Peis, as she was clearing the examination table. A long and dark strand of hair fell from under her hood as she was leaning on the desk.  
He barely saw her without her mask and cowl on. Furtive moments around bonfires where he could catch a glimpse at her features. Her hair was long and dark, resting on her shoulder like a mourning veil, partly concealing a pale face. Her cheeks and nose were sparkled with freckles, like a thousand stars over a dull sky, and her tired eyes, creased with dark circles unveiled sleepless nights of restless work and researches.

‘’If I don’t, who will?’’ she murmured ‘’The Hamlet needs its talent. I can’t pretend I have his gifts.’’

‘’You are very capable, and you are still learning.’’ Gesmas paused, as if the words were resting on his tongue before he could as her ‘’And who’s taking care of you?’’

She stopped her gesture, as if the question had surprised her. ‘’I…’’ 

The door of the laboratory slammed open, before she could continue.  
Boleyn, the Grave-Robber, stormed into the room, her icy eyes burning like a blue flame framed by dirty blond hair. She quickly made her way to the center of the room, the heels of her boots battering against the stained wooden floor. 

‘’Where are my poison vials!? It’s been days since the date Gaspar promised me they would be ready for!’’

She put a firm hand on the on the examination table Gesmas was sitting at, her long nails clawing at the surface in a nervous motion. Without giving the slightest look to the Highwayman, she stared at Peis, dead in the eyes, her other hand resting on her hips in a provocative stance.  
The Plague Doctor didn’t move, firmly standing at the other side of the table.

‘’He’ll soon have it finished, Boleyn.’’ she replied with a calm but stern voice. ‘’Give him some time, he had a rough week.’’

‘’We all had a rough week, bird-face!’’ Boleyn snapped with visible irritation. Gesmas tried to utter a word to somehow calm her down but the Grave-Robber raised a quick hand to make him keep his mouth shut. ‘’Now Peis, tell me where is fucking-Gaspar!’’

Gaspar’s moribund voice emerged from behind the patched curtain hiding the storage-room entrance. ‘’Tell her I am not here…’’

Peis crossed her arms over her meager chest, her voice cold as ice. ‘’See? He’s not here.’’ she said with a hint of mockery ‘’I’ll prepare your vials myself Boleyn, but if you could leave now…’’

Boleyn slammed back her hand on the table, showing her teeth like a Rabid Gnasher.  
‘’Take me for a fool! I didn’t paid Gaspar with a ruby ring to wait forever!’’

‘’With a bony finger still attached to it... Thanks for the sample nonetheless.’’ The Plague Doctor retorted before turning her masked face to Gesmas as the situation was heating up. ‘’I am done with you. Don’t forget to come back to get your suture points removed.. but for now you should leave.’’

Her voice was still soft but relentlessly firm. The Highwayman got up from his stool and decided that it was wiser to follow Peis’ injunction and to leave before it got ugly. Boleyn may be implacable but Peis for sure had seen worse. He swiftly nodded his hat to the two ladies before leaving, the argument firing again through the wooden door of the laboratory as he closed it behind him. He breathed in, silently wishing good luck to Peis before heading to the exit of the Athenaeum. 

The place was filled with the scents of polished wood, old scrolls and cold candles, overwhelmed by the troubling perfume of incense. A light dust was floating in the air, revealing itself to the light piercing through the rare windows, before falling to the wooden floor, cracking slightly under the Highwayman’s steps. He could hear, through the closed doors, discreet rumors and bubbling stills. The Athenaeum was the refuge for those who craved for knowledge and wanted to hold it. For many in the Hamlet, this place was more dangerous and uncertain than the most somber dungeons of the Estate. Reynauld himself couldn’t pass the door of the Athenaeum without clenching his teeth and crossing himself. Its library sheltered forgotten manuscripts and grimoires, hiding, under their cracked leather cover, unsettling tales and forbidden incantations. Haunted antiquities and cursed relics were guarded between its walls and the rumors grew that an underground chamber was built to store corpses Plague Doctors would use for their ‘’experiments’’. Peis and Gaspar always denied these ridiculous assumptions, concealing a smirk behind their masks, eyes gleaming under the mirrored lenses.

When Gesmas passed the great library doors, they cracked open and Abdul Alhzared, the Occultist, sticked his head outside. With his frowning face under his turban, he looked like ruffled owl who had just been awakened. He pointed a finger in direction of the laboratory. ‘’What was that fuss? Was it Boleyn?’’

Gesmas nodded, concealing an amused smirk under his scarf. ‘’And Gaspar being late on his work, as always.’’

The Occultist rubbed his tired eyes with two fingers, grumbling. ‘’Again… mnahn’t gof’nn’’. Don’t they know that there are people trying to study here?’’ He pinched at this mustache in frustration before offering to Gesmas a more welcoming face. ‘’Anyway… I am glad that your returned safe from the Ruins my friend. It was a frustrating mission, from what I’ve heard.’’

The Highwayman shrugged under his coat, slightly uncomfortable. ‘’News travelled fast.’’

‘’It’s a small town here.’’ Alhzared stepped outside to put a fond hand on Gesmas’ shoulder. ‘’Don’t be so hard on yourself my friend, everybody made it home alive, and it’s a blessing these days.’’

‘’That Musketeer got badly hurt… And Reynauld didn’t speak a word since we returned.’’

‘’They took good care of her at the Sanitarium, she should doing better by now. And as for Reynauld…’’ the Occultist sighed ‘’Let him be. At least for now. You know him, sometimes his brain get as thick as his helm.’’ He patted Gesmas’ shoulder before letting him go. ‘’Now sorry my friend, but I have to return to my researches. The Abyss is calling.’’ He offered to the Highwayman a hearty grin before disappearing again behind the library doors. Gesmas was left on the threshold, wondering if Alhzared was joking or not.

When he finally passed through the Athenaeum’s doors, the daylight nearly blinded him. Today the Hamlet was graced with an agreeable weather. A welcome change, in these troubled times. He stayed there a moment, gazing at the unveiled sky, until Najwa, the Antiquarian, showed up in front of him. Her arms were busy with heavy crates filled with bizarre finds, and she gave him a look implying that he should move from the steps. There was no small amount of ire in her eyes, under the drape of her silk shawl. He stepped away, opening the door for her as she passed by. She thanked him with a leery look, her suspicious eyes rimmed with kohl. Gesmas didn’t care, she had a mind of her own.

He went down the stone stairs, rubbing a hand on his bandaged arm through his coat, before putting his hands back in his pocket, pensive. The last mission didn’t go well, indeed.

****

‘’We must move on!!!’’ Reynauld barked, holding the flame of their last torch, as if it was their last ray of hope and sanity amidst the darkness and madness surrounding the group.

‘’Giver her some time!’’ begged feverishly Sister Boissel, upholding the Musketeer. 

The markswoman flinched and she nearly made the Vestal stumble with her, on the crannied flagstones of the Ruins. She crisped a hand over her flank. ‘’I… I can’t go any further…’’ her eyes were wide open and her lips trembling as her gloved hand tried to staunch the blood flow staining her leather doublet.

They still had a last corridor to cross to finally reach the end of the Ruins. They ran out of bandages and the blaze of the flame was dulling faster than daylight on a rough Winter day. Gesmas pressed his hand against his wounded arm. A measly attempt to parry a Cultist Brawler’s sharp assault. The sleeve of his coat was now damp and warm with blood and the pain got him nauseous.

‘’We can’t linger furthermore or it will be the death of us all!!!’’ snarled the Crusader, his hand holding the flame suddenly shaking ‘’If she can’t follow us, she better stay here, it would frees up some swinging space!’’

Dazed by the pain and Reynauld’s barks, hitting in his head like a hammer on an anvil, Gesmas pounced on the knight, catching him by his camail, crushing him against the narrowest wall, putting all his weight against the Crusarder’s armored chest. Reynauld was taller and stronger than the Highwayman, but the quick move and the surprise made him stumble. The torch fell on the floor, ambers crashing on the dusty ground. 

Gesmas barred his teeth, his fist clenching on the mail. ’’You will fucking calm down first Reynauld! You aren’t thinking straight anymore!’’ he lowered his voice, his jaw slightly shaking as he took back his breath. ‘’The four of us entered this place together, and we will make it back to the Hamlet, together. All of us. Alright?’’

The knight violently chased the Highwayman away from him, rubbing off his tabard in a nervous gesture. ‘’Fine then…’’ he growled, leaning down to catch back the dying torch. ‘’Find a way to get her out of there, it’s none of my concern!’’

The Crusader fended off and rushed alone in the depth of the corridor, taking away the last sparkles of light with him.

‘’Hold on!’’ shouted Boissel as the Musketeer was about to faint in her arms. ‘’By the Light he’s out of hand, again! If only Dismas was here he…’’

‘’But Dismas isn’t here.’’ snapped Gesmas, catching the wounded markswoman to free the Vestal from her weight. ‘’Go after him, I’ll carry her.’’

The nun wavered. ‘’But….’’

‘’Boissel, I can handle it.’’ Gesmas’ voice was rasp. ‘’Now go!!!’’

He watched the Vestal as she ran after Reynauld, calling his name in the dark, until the shadows engulfed her. He could still hear her worried voice like a distant call, and her armor clattering at the pace of her run. He threw the markswoman on his back with a painful groan. He could feel the wet warmth of the Musketeer’s blood dripping on his back, contrasting with the coldness seeping through the walls full of mold surrounding them.

In the distance he could hear the haunting Doomsay of a Madman, echoing against the crumbling walls of the Ruins, and the screeching of reanimated skeletons. Reynauld and Boissel would open the way, Gesmas told himself, trying to carry on, his shoulder already sore and his arm now numb. He had to reach for the light, their way out of the ruins, right ahead.

The Musketeer muttered a few words, her voice barely audible. 

‘’Just… Let me there… it does… it doesn’t matter anymore…’’

‘’We’re gonna be fine.’’ groaned Gismas. He was no man to make promises he couldn’t keep but he knew, at this very moment, that he was lying. ‘’Just stay with me… er….’’ He still didn’t know her name. He shrugged it off. ‘’Don’t let go ok…?’’

She didn’t answer, and the weight on his shoulders suddenly felt dead.

‘’Well… Fuck.’’

****

Gesmas went to the Sanitarium only to be told that the Musketeer had left already. She felt the urge to leave this place as soon as her legs were able to hold her again, despite the doctors recommending her to stay to rest a few days more. She probably didn’t feel at ease in the glaucous dispensary Gesmas thought. That made two of them. The nurse who had been at her bedside these past days suggested to the Highwayman to search for her around the Cathedral. Gesmas didn’t want to disrupt the markswoman in her retreat but still, they hadn’t shared a word since he carried her back to the Hamlet. 

He headed to the house of God, hesitating before the intimidating doorstep. Gesmas was no man of faith. He never passed through the threshold of the Cathedral, letting the believers to their adoration and, for some, their obsession. The Highwayman took a big breath before pushing open the heavy doors of the Cathedral cloister, clad with ironwork and wide tacks. The sculptural figure of Saint Martha, crowning the entrance, gave him a reproving look and the gargoyles, as if they knew he had no place here, welcomed him with cruel smiles, displaying their sharp fangs of rock, pitted with moss. The doors closed behind him with a dull complaint and the thick scent of old stones and lichen after the rain filled his nostril when he stepped into the Cloister. He could hear the light chirp of some birds who seeked refuge under the shadows of the delicate arches framing the ambulatory. Figures of lions and winged bulls, mutilated by the time guarded the columns, entwined with grapes and wines. The blacked silhouette of a beheaded griffin, sinking its cruel claws in the tender paunch of a lamb caught the Highwayman interest for an instant. He wondered what bizarre and tormented mind sculpted these odd apparitions. Everything around him resonated like a warning. Every stones, every bas-relief, crumbling under the weight of time intimated him to leave, like a whisper, a murmur echoing from figures to figures.

As Gesmas shrugged this unsettling feeling away, he heard voices, from the other side of the ambulatory. From behind the columns, he recognized the silhouettes of Sister Alma and Ser Ademar, a Crusader with a black coat of arms who arrived in Malemort a few days after Gesmas. In one year, they had explored many dungeons together and the Highwayman could reasonably call Ademar a friend by now. A very secretive friend still, but a friend nonetheless.

The Crusader and the Vestal had joined hands over a rosary, in a silent communion.  
‘’Take it.’’ Alma finally murmured after a moment of silence. ‘’The Light will be with you, it will keep you safe.’’ She let a hand reach for Ademar’s helm, her fingers brushing over the polished iron of it’s visor. ‘’Promise me that you’ll be alright.’’

‘’Alma, thy know I can’t make promises I am not sure I can keep.’’ The Crusader replied softly, wrapping the rosary Alma gave him around his heavy belt. ‘’The Heir called, we have orders.’’ He reached for her hand over his helm to press it over his heart. ‘’Have no fear, the Light is bright. It blesses us all.’’

Gesmas, leaning against a column, smirked slightly at the scene. Ademar had played it close to his chest the whole time… he probably hadn't told him not to compromise Alma. ‘’The Lord’s mysterious ways uh…?’’ He breathed, vaguely amused, too absorbed by the sight to hear Sister Boissel’ s light steps on the cold flagstones behind him.

She cleared her throat, making Gesmas jolt. Ams crossed on her chest, her eyes were stern but a hint of amusement curved her lips. ‘’Gesmas, what a surprise! I wasn’t expecting to find you within these walls. Did you came here to ease your unquiet mind?’’

Gesmas gave her a falsely innocent smile. ‘’Me!? As if I have an unquiet mind! Oh Boissel, I assure you that my conscience is perfectly clear!’’

The Vestal sighed before smirking with a wry half-smile. ‘’Of course…. Tell me you weren’t staring.’’

Gesmas played along, placing a solemn hand on his chest. ‘’Absolutely not! Err…’’ he scratched at the stubble on his cheeks, trying to change the subject. ‘’You’re doing well I see… The last mission was a very close call right?’’

‘’It was, indeed.’’ She took his arm to invite him beside her. ‘’How is your arm doing by the way?’’

Gesmas shrugged as they walked under the archway. ‘’Fine, I guess… I waited a bit too much for this gash to be taken care of.’’

Boissel rolled eyes under her dark wimple ‘’I knew it… can’t you take care of yourself for once?’’

‘’Don’t you worry Boissel, Peis patched me up.’’

‘’The Lord bless her gentle soul. She is way too patient with you.’’

‘’So are you.’’ smirked Gesmas as Boissel gently released his arm. He sat on the remains of an old sarcophagus under the shadow of the arches. He got his tobacco pouch out of his coat pocket and started to roll a cigarette. ‘’Tell me Boissel…’’ 

She gave him a light smack on his tricorne. ‘’No cigarette here!’’

‘’Fine, fine..’’ he grumbled slightly, putting back the leather cover in his pocket. ‘’So… Can you tell me if the Musketeer is here? I went to the Sanitarium to see her but they sent me back here.’’

Boissel opened a hand in direction of the small chapel at the end of the Cloister. ‘’She retired herself in the chapel of Saint Martha for the day.’’ Her eyes became grave. ‘’She owes you her life, Gesmas.’’

He waved his hand. ‘’We should always count on each others in these troubled times. This is how we made it through this journey so far.’’

The Vestal joined her hands in a nervous gesture. ‘’I am concerned about Reynauld.. I don’t know what happened, he just lost his mind. Only God knows why he gave up so quickly on that Musketeer. She wasn’t ready for what was laying beneath the Ruins.’’

‘’As I’ve been told, suffer not the lame horse… But nobody is ever ready for what is haunting Malemort.’’

Boissel nodded with a discreet tilt of the head. From the height of the Cathedral, the bells rang, echoing in the Cloister, calling to prayer. The Vestal offered Gesmas a pale smile. ‘’My duties are calling, I have to leave you. Take care and may the Light be with you my friend.’’

Gesmas thanked her with a nod of his hat, waiting for her to be far away enough to light the cigarette he just rolled. He pulled on it, breathing in the acrid smoke, his eyes set on the chapel’s doors. After a few minutes wondering if he should wait for the markswoman to get out of prayer room, he stubbed his cigarette out on the lid of the sarcophagus and headed to the chapel.

The creaking of the old doors resonated in the silent room as Gesmas pushed them open, revealing walls covered with frescos. The colors had faded over time and the facing was cracked in several places but the composition was still vivid, enthralling. Tangled figures of men and women, living and dead, hands joined, danced and laughed under the flickering candlelights. Red, green and gold wines knotted around blackened flesh and ivory bones. 

‘’It’s a Danse Macabre.’’ echoed the Musketeer’s voice, from the depth of the chapel. She appeared to Gesmas pale and tired. 

Her hair was losely pinned up, a few wild copper strands framing her delicate face, no longer hidden under her feathered hat. She had let away her white collar and her old hunt cloak for a simpler doublet. She lightened a candle.

‘’It’s a reminder that when we are facing death, we are all the same. For dust we are and to dust we shall return.’’ She paused. ‘’.. I would have died in the Ruins if it wasn’t for you carrying me back to safety.’’

The Highwayman slightly froze when she raised her eyes to him. Black like the sea on a stormy night. Without the shadow of her hat, the contrast of her dark eyes against her milky skin was striking. Unsettling.

‘’Nobody should be left behind.’’ Gesmas uttered out, his voice more hoarse than he would have wished. ‘’Reynauld shouldn’t have…’’

‘’He was right’’ the Muketeer cut him off ‘’I came unprepared.’’

‘’Nobody is ever prepared for what lies beneath, trust me.’’

She didn’t say a word, her eyes getting lost in the light of the flames, dancing on the walls. Absorbed in the contemplation of things Gesmas couldn’t see. As the silence was getting heavy, the Highwayman murmured, uncomfortable. ‘’May I…. May I ask your name?’’

She tilted her head slightly, in a gesture of discomfort, eyes blacker than the shadows, her voice like a breath, resting on her lips.

‘’Crève-Coeur.’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever to rework and correct and for those who follow the story, I am sorry... Writing in english is a tedious exercise.  
> I hope if you liked the previous chapter, you enjoyed this one a bit more.


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